<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I Think I Might Be A Threat To Myself by Athenaash</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190880">I Think I Might Be A Threat To Myself</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenaash/pseuds/Athenaash'>Athenaash</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Child Abuse, Depressed TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Medicine, Past Rape/Non-con, SUPER GRAPHIC, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Timeline What Timeline, TommyInnit is Not Okay (Video Blogging RPF), Unhappy Ending, marked compleated bc im probably never gonna give it an Actual Ending, plz be careful, shits bad and itll only get worse folks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:08:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenaash/pseuds/Athenaash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy wasn't kind to the body he ended up getting stuck with, but it sure as hell wasn't kind to him either. </p><p>////</p><p>Idk some connected vent oneshots, I have trauma and one (1) hobby. title from The Internet Has Ruined Me</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>459</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Im not promoting anything in this fic, I just needed to vent</p><p>TW for:<br/>- graphic self harm<br/>- graphic suicidal thoughts</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy's hands shook as he brought down the razor on his thighs, slitting his skin didn't take as much effort as you would think, he just hasn't eaten in a few days. You just had to be quick about it, nothing wrong with going over the cuts a few times to make it deep enough either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was supposed to have been done with this, he'd already got sectioned, hes even on a strict regiment of pills! But God, after his lab partner ODed in the school restroom, Tommy hasn't been able to work through any of the shit he's been dealing with for the past few years. He didn't even know her that well, they talked one or twice for school, but her death hit him hard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How pathetic was that? A single fucking trigger sent him packing, straight back to where he was a year prior, right after his first attempt. Tommy didn't get it, he should have a thicker skin than this, he fuckin' boasted about being a man all the time, and yet here he was. In the same fucking position he keeps ending up in. Two seconds away from offing himself, only to end up slicing up his body instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's not like it was good for anything other than that, though. Fucker's brought him too much pain for Tommy to feel bad about cutting open. His knees always hurt, and joints ached for reasons that didn't bother letting themselves be known to him, or any of the doctors his parents shuffled him along to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the physical pain his body caused him, it sure as hell didn't make up for it in looks. The thing was ugly, plain and simple. Too bulbous around the edges, with limbs long enough to be a liability. His lips were cracked and dry, bleeding when he ended up picking at them for too long, fingers getting the same treatment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There wasn't a kid in the world more awkward than Tommy fuckin' Innit himself, limbs sticking out this way and that, face covered in acne and scabs that ended up scattering his body from hours of picking at his skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tommy stuffed his razor underneath his mattress, not bothering to hide it any further, the people who dared call themselves his parents didn't give a shit about him, outside of when he made himself a problem. Which he ended up doing frequently, basking in the attention it finally got him from two middle aged dicks who only yelled at him and each other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it'd be better if they actually hit him outside of the occasional slap, he'd finally have something to complain about. Something solid to get him out of the house that kept him a prisoner, within its pristine white walls and perfectly kept furniture. It's like no one lived here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn't bother cleaning up the blood already caking on his thighs tonight, he'd end up having to wash his sheets in the morning, he could shower then too. For now he was tired. Sick of having to keep up his jokes and loud demeanor just to wave off the worry of the few friends he did have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tommy wasn't kind to the body he ended up getting stuck with, but it sure as hell wasn't kind to him either. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Big TW for<br/>- eating disorders being shown in a positive light (not what I believe)<br/>- graphic eating disorder mentions, specific numbers<br/>- a couple of lines of graphic suicidal ideation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy was disgusting, that much was certain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone on a discord server was just fuckin'- they were venting about their eating disorder, and Tommy </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be like them. Be as sick as them. Hell, they even sent pictures of their ribs, and he tried to push down the twinge of jealousy that surged up in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if years of therapy wasn't fixing him, what the fuck would? Tommy was supposed to take his meds, and do whatever his therapist asked of him, and he would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he was kinda pissed when he wasn't. Tommy was fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he realized he hadn't eaten in three days, even angrier when he stepped on the scale and felt happy he lost 3 pounds, bringing him to an unhealthy 138lbs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was… bad. The next time he was gonna get weighed was in a week, he'd have to start lining his seams with fishing weights if he was gonna fall down the rabbit hole again. Maybe he'd even make it to his UGW, the coveted 110lbs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, he could almost hear his social worker droning in his ear when she finds out. A mix of: </span>
  <em>
    <span>'Nooo Thomas don't starve yourself, you're so sexy aha'</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>'You'll end up killing yourself if you go any further, Thomas'.</span>
  </em>
  <span> As if that last one would be much of a problem at all, Tommy was 100% sure literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>all of</span>
  </em>
  <span> his problems would disappear the moment he bit the bullet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But hey, if he was gonna relapse, why not make it his worst dive yet? He was so fuckin' sick wasn't he? His hands reached to feel the tips of his collar bones, finger tracing the tips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy </span>
  <em>
    <span>wished</span>
  </em>
  <span> people looked at him and thought he looked sick, all skin and bones, with tremors that shook through his body like an earthquake. He wished he was bad enough that he couldn't stand for longer than a few moments, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>craved</span>
  </em>
  <span> the feeling of hunger tearing through his stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn't wait until he could count all his ribs, and trace his hip bones through his skin. Even if he could wrap his pointer and thumb around his wrist, Tommy would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He'd be happy when his entire body ached with starvation as he slowly wilted into a pile of bones with no fat ruining his figure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Tommy wondered how his friends would react if they knew he thought like this. Would they try and stop him? Or would they be proud of him? Proud that he was taking initiative in how he looked, working out every day until the calories he ate were burned off and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>thin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But if they tried and stopped him… if they </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> stop him, Tommy didn't know he would fucking do. Maybe he'd finally kill himself, take to slitting his wrists or jumping off the highest building he could find. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not like anyone would care.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I dont encourage ANYTHING in this fic, I just needed a place to vent</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW:<br/>- eating disorders and self harm shown in a positive light<br/>- mentioned child abuse</p><p>I'm not pro SH/ana, I just needed to vent.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"You haven't eaten all day," TommyInnit didnt know what to say when Wilbur finally confronted him, the pit in his stomach dropping painfully lower. The brunette held the teen's gaze, not wavering, as if daring him to challenge something he knew. "You didn't eat dinner last night, and I just heard your stomach grumbling,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was sick. You don't run an eating disorder Twitter page without knowing you won't make it out of the disease that holds you so tightly in its claws. But Tommy didn't want people to know he was sick; at least not yet, not until he was thin enough that it mattered. He settled on agreeing, keeping his tone light, "What about it big man?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I saw the Twitter notification from when you were screen sharing last night, and I looked up the account," Tommy's shoulders slumped with the finality in Wilbur's voice, a sigh leaking out of him, "I'm not gonna force you to stop. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span> force you to stop, but I'm asking you to talk to my Tommy,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know everything?" Wilbur nods, "Whelp, fuck. If you held off for a month, then I'd have lot 5 pounds, which would bring me down to a clean 17.5 BMI," That seems to take it out of Wilbur, the man slumping forward in his chair, burying his face in his hands. Tommy just scoffs, voice coloring an ugly bitter tone, "You're the one who brought it up,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span>," the brunette's voice breaks on the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>and is that-</span>
  </em>
  <span> holy shit. Wilbur Soot was crying because a random stupid kid he knows is anorexic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why not?" Tommy shrugs, "I've been slicing myself open for as long as I can remember, just started starving myself last year, why not have some fun with it?" He looked at Wilbur, try his best to push down the guilt that had </span>
  <em>
    <span>no reason</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be shoving itself into his chest, wedging itself in between the self loathing and hunger, "You see the pictures? Nasty shit 'eh? I put warnings, you should'a skipped them,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course Wilbur saw the pictures, pictures of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>little brother's</span>
  </em>
  <span> body sliced up in ways he couldn't imagine, like he was screaming for someone to come in and lift him out of the hole he dug for himself. But he knew that was just wistful thinking, Wilbur knew his brother got a sick form of satisfaction every time he got a like on those tweets, calling his cuts beautiful, perfect on his skin, marking it in ways that couldn't be reversed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can I have your blades, Tommy," It wasn't a question, Will didn't give the teen much of a choice. He scrubbed at his eyes before leveling Tommy with a glare when he didn't hand anything over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll just get more," When Wilbur raises his eyebrows, and Tommy digs out a shaving razor from his back pocket, and places it into the brunette's hand, hearing his breath hitch. "I have more in my room,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the blonde comes back down, wooden box in hand, he sees Wilbur's shoulders shaking, and head buried in his arms. Tommy tried not to feel guilty, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> body, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted with it, and Wilbur should just fucking deal. He sets the box down in front of Wil, on the table, who sits up straight, eyes blotchy, "You can't tell my parents,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur laughs, voice raising into a yell, "Why not Tommy?! I should've gone to your parents </span>
  <em>
    <span>immediately</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you're fucking sick! You need help and I can't </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> give it to you," His hands clench into fists what he sees Tommy shaking, and takes a deep breath, "Tell me why I shouldn't tell you parents, and I'll consider it,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Tommy sits down next to Wilbur, and lets out a long sigh, "My parents aren't- They'd just section me off and leave me to rot Wil. Hell, maybe they'd just smack me around a bit and call it a done deal," He lets out a humorless laugh when he hears Wilbur suck in a sharp breath across from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine. What can I do to help?" Wilbur's voice was curt, to the point, "If your folks ever get too bad, you can take the bus down to my place, you know that yeah?" Tommy nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not gonna get better just cuz you're nice to me, I'll just fuckin' end up buying some new blades 'n nothing is changing in the eating disorder department," Tommy hears Wilbur stand up, and tries not to flinch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he gets in response is a: "I know," from Wilbur as he walks out the door.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: past rape/non-con (tho graphic), self harm, eating disorder, invalidating rape vics (internalized and w/o malicious intent), ED/SH being shown in a semi-positive light </p><p>Usual disclaimer: I dont promote ANYTHING in this fic, I just needed a place to vent.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Goddamnit. </p><p>Tommy thought he got over all of this. Gotten over the hands roaming over everywhere they shouldn't. The feeling of being a thing to be used and discarded. </p><p>He bounced between feeling like it was his fault, not that it could've been, he was three when it started, and boiling anger that simmered under his skin.</p><p>The anger never seemed to leave him though, no matter how hard he tried. He was <em> pissed </em> at whoever dared <em> hurt him </em> before he even had a chance to do anything wrong. Tommy was a fucking <em> child </em> . Too young to be touched, too young to be <em> ruined </em> in the way he was, for years.</p><p>He was corrupted. Plain and simple. A dirty rotten thing, through and through. He remembered liking some of it at the end. And fuck man; Tommy still wanted it. Maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was some mess of <em> him </em> being disgusting, but he still wanted someone to touch him. Weren't rape survivors supposed to <em> not </em> want that?</p><p>That is, if you could call what happened to Tommy rape. As was told to him many, <em> many </em> fucking times, he was probably asking for it. Or maybe even wanted it, secretly. It isn't rape if you want it, he thinks. Maybe Tommy was making a mountain out of a molehole, maybe he was making it all up, and it happened to everyone.</p><p>Maybe everyone was touched over and over in places they couldn't even bare to look at without having a flashback. Maybe Tommy was really just a pathetic coward who deserved everything that happened to him and more. He knows if given the chance, someone would do it again. </p><p>If given the chance, Tommy knows someone would hurt him again. And he can't say he wouldn't deserve it. </p><p>It was like being a shirt; a stained, ugly shirt with rips and tears in it. No one <em> wants </em>to wear him, but they would if they hadn't done the wash in a few days. No matter how hard Tommy tried, he couldn't get his stains out, or sew patches over the tears. He just didn't know how to sew. </p><p>And God did he try. Tommy tried talking to his friends, being open, journaling, even cutting himself open. Nothing worked, and he was just the same fucked up as he was before. </p><p>So why didn't he lean into it? He wasn't able to focus during the day, so why not cut down on his calories? Make his brain fuzz over when hes only had 700 in the past 3 days. Instead of the phantom aches he had everywhere, bruising himself up nicely did well. To replace the memory of hands that ghosted over him, grabbing and proding, Tommy used blades to make a sharp pain that'd stick with him.</p><p>Tommy knew he was used. He knew he was dirty, wrong, and messed up in the head. He wasn't proud of it, but hey. If the shoe fits wear it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Reminder to rape survivors:</p><p>You aren't used. You aren't broken. You're alive and that's wonderful. People are dicks, you obviously know this better than others. This thing that happened to you/is still happening to you doesn't define you. YOU choose what defines you.</p><p> </p><p>Reminder to me:</p><p>Stop having flashbacks I dont enjoy them /lh</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy hadn't wanted to kill himself more in the past day, than in the last two years. Apparently, finding out your Dad is an addict fucks you up! And it fucks you up good enough that you leave the house and stay with that friend that you’re pretty sure hates you, but is too nice to say anything about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy stuck to his word; he bought a razor and broke the plastic off to get to the blades pretty much right after Wilbur left. He shoved them in his backpack in a baggie, and left them for Future-Tommy. For now, he had to sit and act civil with people who couldn't care less if he lived or died.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been cutting every chance he got, it was that or sitting in a dissociative fugue thick enough he couldn’t feel his own fingers. He was shaky, and out of it. Tommy wanted nothing more than to fuck himself up so bad he ended up on a true crime podcast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’d sure as hell be a way to go though. His legs and stomach already looked bad enough, maybe if Tommy’d swallow glass and fuck off to the creek nearby the local news would come around. They’d probably figure out how much of an attention whore he was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was so stupid, and pathetic. Pathetic, stupid, horrible, and- god he was overdramatic too. The whole situation didn’t even involve him much, it was his </span>
  <em>
    <span>dad’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> issue first right? He shouldn’t be fucking shitty about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When his friend’s mum called him down for dinner, Tommy let out a loud sigh. A plate was set in front of him, and Tommy could feel the harsh eyes of her boring into him as he started speaking, "Can I eat in the room?" He heard his mother sigh, and Tommy tried to choke down the bile that reached through his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't you have homework too?" The lady leveled him with a glare, Tommy had to choke down a scoff, she wasn’t his mum, and she needed to stop acting like she was. His friend just looked between the two of them before trying to crack a joke to lighten the tension. It didn’t work, and the conversation fell flat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could already feel his brain fogging over as he shoved a bite of whatever was on his plate in his mouth.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The next thing Tommy knew, he was on a bus with a grossly filled stomach and a throbbing cheek. It wasn't too late, but the short winter days made sure the moon was shining straight into his eyes. Turning to the person a few seats away, Tommy asked where they were. She looked confused, before saying they were under London. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy turned to the map next to him, and tried to decipher it. It looked like his panic induced brain was smart enough to put him on the right train to Wilbur’s house. The man wouldn’t’ve offered for him ta stay at his place if he didn’t expect Tommy to show up at - he checked his phone and cringed - two am. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s what ya gotta expect right? Tommy trudged his way up to Wilbur’s door, and knocked hard enough to wake him up. He heard the older man yell out something angrily, tripping over something on his way to the door. “Ey lemme in big man! It’s fuckin’ cold out bitch!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door was thrown open almost immediately after that, Wilbur looking a lot more awake than he should be this late at night. Tommy pushed past him, “Hurry up comin’ to the door next time, coulda gotten mugged while I was out there,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur sighs, and closed the door behind Tommy, “Got any immediate issues?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got a good bit of cuts I needa clean up, if ya got rubbing alcohol I can grab,” Wilbur’s sharp intake of breath makes Tommy smirk, “If ya wanna see em you can, but I know how to take care of them, I’ll be stayin’ here til my mum texts me in a few days, actin’ all worried like,” He pauses, “Unless you wanna kick me out, I can figure somethin’ out,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad you came to me,” Wilbur rolls up his sleeves, “What- can I ask what happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dad’s an addict, Mum said I’d be better if I stayed outta the house for the next bit, friend’s mum she sent me too was a bitch,” Tommy shrugged, and tried to push down the panicky feeling that raced to his fingertips, asking for them to flap, “Thought you’d be better to stay at or somethin’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur sighed, rubbed at his eyes, “I gotta guest room, wanna- you wanna sleep there or in the living room?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh… the guest room? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Duh</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Tommy tried to push past Wilbur, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, and brought into a hug that almost cut off his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't scare me like that again," Tommy didn't bother responding, burying his head into Wilbur's shirt to pretend tears weren't pricking at his eyes.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>shoutout to the person im staying with atm! ur less of a bitch than i expected</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy was getting more risky with his cutting, and he didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. Well. He knew it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, technically. But it felt good, and he liked it. Tommy knew where his arteries were, and he only hit beans every so often. And when he did he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> how to take care of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just… he needed it. Tommy needed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sometimes it was a punishment, he fucked up in school? Slice. But sometimes it was a reward. A sick fucking version of a reward that his disordered ass brain gave him. He managed to starve himself well enough? Sliced and diced. Tommy did good on a stream? Blade time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was addicted, Tommy wasn't stupid. But this addiction wasn't really hurting anyone was it? Except himself, but that was the whole point, wasn't it? He stuck in his lane, and other people should stick in theirs, it shouldn’t be that fuckin’ hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except Wilbur, since he found Tommy's alt (which was deleted almost immediately, new account being made in its stead), has decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> been staying in his lane. He's been texting Tommy at every moment he could. Most of it wasn't even about his fucked up brain, just Wilbur grasping at straws to try and help him. It wasn't working, obviously, but it was nice. Sorta. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ok it was nice he </span>
  <em>
    <span>guessed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, especially when he was out, sitting on a bridge at night when his phone dinged, a message from Wilbur popping up on the screen, '</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lol, this banana bread reminded me of u</span>
  </em>
  <span>'. Which was just… so incredibly stupid, the picture he sent didn't even look remotely like Tommy! But it was enough for him to slide off the railing, setting his feet on solid ground before lighting another cigarette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy shot a text back, just saying '</span>
  <em>
    <span>lmao</span>
  </em>
  <span>' before his phone started to ring, call coming from Wilbur. He picked up on the first ring, not wanting to drag the conversation he was about to have out. Wilbur didn't bother with hello's before saying "</span>
  <em>
    <span>You missed your planned stream today,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" keeping his voice ridiculously light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not even gonna say hello to me?" Tommy joked, and when he didn't get a response from Wilbur, he let out a sigh, "Eh, wanted to fuck off and be outta the house, whats it to ya?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You know </span>
  </em>
  <span>exactly</span>
  <em>
    <span> why I'm worried Tommy!" </span>
  </em>
  <span>A few cars ran by, and he paused, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you safe right now?</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Wilbur sounded… exhausted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy scowled, he really needed to work on being less readable, "I wasn't five minutes ago, I think I'll be fine now," At the hitch of Wilbur's breath, he laughed, "What? Do you want me to lie about it? Cuz I can d00o that! Been doin' it for years,"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>No! No don't lie to me I'm just- I'm </span>
  </em>
  <span>worried</span>
  <em>
    <span> Tommy</span>
  </em>
  <span>," He hears shuffling around on the other side of the phone, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Let me pick you up, if you can't go home, for whatever reason, please let me pick you up</span>
  </em>
  <span>," </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy wasn't stupid, being picked up by Wil meant he'd be put on DIY suicide watch, and wouldn't get time alone to cut. Wilbur wouldn't force him to eat, but he'd do the '</span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm not mad, just disappointed</span>
  </em>
  <span>' thing. But… God Tommy really fucking didn't want to be alone. He wanted to be in a heated apartment with a charged phone and blankets, and adults who didn't yell at each other or him, constantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded, before remembering Wilbur couldn't see him over the phone, and cleared his throat. “Yeah whatever, ‘long as you don’t mind me staying for a few days,” Tommy paused, sighing, “I’m at the bridge a bit away from my house, come grab me big man,” He hung up, and let out a long groan, snuffing his cig under his shoe, . </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Wilbur’s car pulled up to the curb, Tommy realized how bad he really fucked up this time. But he tried to ignore it when two arms wrapped around him, kneeling in front of the boy, almost like Wilbur was reassuring himself Tommy was alive, and safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling back, Tommy scoffed, and rubbed at his face, “I was gonna jump,” He avoided eye contact with Wilbur when he sat down next to him, the teen pulling up his knees and burying his face into them, “I still wanna,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur rubs his back, and sighs, “I- my mum always said to never make big decisions when you’re upset,” Tommy scoffed at that, but Wilbur continued on, “and uh- I think this is one of the biggest decisions you can make, yeah? So what if you- you come back to my place, and you sleep for the night, and make the decision when you’re calmer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy shrugged, “I- god you should hate me. I fuckin- basically took over your </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I’m eating your food, and I’m making you drive all the way out here because I’m too much of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pussy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to take the next fucking step right off that ledge,” His hands go down to scratch and pick at his wrists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey- back up, I invited you to my place, yeah? You gotta let me decide for myself and shit, ok? I’m happy you’re staying with me, it gets lonely alone y'know?” Wilbur looks away when Tommy starts picking off the scabs on his wrists, “I’m sure as hell glad I was able to drive out here and talk to you, ok?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, take me back to your place, I’ll be thinking about killing myself for the next few weeks,” Blood wells up on the scabs fresh enough he can pick up, and Tommy sighs, pulling his sleeve down, “What constitutes as ‘calm enough’ to make the decision,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ideally, your answer is gonna be no,” Wilbur lets out a short chuckle, “I don’t know, pretty sure my Mum intended her advice to be about… health insurance or something, I don't know!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And ideally, you let me choose the music on the way back,” Wilbur said something about him being a little shit when they finally started up the car.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Wilbur took a deep breath, and says, “Don’t scare me like that again,”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>